


Love Interruption

by rochelleechidna



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Cigarettes, Coffee Shops, Coming Untouched, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Doppelganger, Hacking, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Kissing, M/M, Minor Kaiba Seto/Yami Yuugi, Past Violence, Recovery, Revenge, Scars, Sexual Tension, Strangers to Lovers, Teasing, Theft, Trauma, geminishipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24194260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rochelleechidna/pseuds/rochelleechidna
Summary: All Bakura wanted was to spend a day writing, hoping it would jog his memory. But a series of mix-ups at his favourite coffee shop, his job and even his home - all involving a stunning and quick-fingered thief - would see his plans pleasantly altered.
Relationships: Geminishipping - Relationship, Thief King Bakura/Yami Bakura
Comments: 21
Kudos: 15
Collections: Fake Outs & Mishaps





	1. Troublemaker

**Author's Note:**

> I blame too many doujins and fanart for this _incredibly_ self-indulgent fic haha I think geminishipping is one of those rare pairs that confuses people - mainly because there's the obvious issue of both participants sorta kinda being one in the same. So, I figured why not try an AU approach where they're separate individuals - in, for some reason, a world full of film noir and screwball comedy tropes - and just see what happens? Also, many thanks to sitabethel for letting me (unofficially) partake in the rare pair collection!

Bakura stared into infinity and felt its cold, uncaring eyes stare right back at him.

There were many worse things that might frighten the average plebe – the likes of whom he was forced to interact with on a daily basis – yet nothing quite unsettled _him_ like this exact scenario.

Who knew that a simple blank page could hold so much power?

He’d been sat within the bustling coffee shop for over an hour and had barely put down more than a few words – hitting “delete” almost as soon as they’d been typed out. Glancing at the time – and cursing silently when he saw it was already one in the afternoon – Bakura sighed loudly, scrunched his face in concentration and wrote the first lines that popped into his head.

_He was a master of his craft. Yet the one mystery he couldn’t solve… was his own._

Backspacebackspacebackspace. Burn it with fire and may he never dare touch another keyboard again.

Bakura groaned and pressed his hand against the small gold ring that lay under his shirt – a grounding tool to numb his senses. Maybe he just needed more coffee? That was it. _That_ would cure his writer’s block and ensure that his self-proclaimed day off from work wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.

Ignoring the three empty disposable cups that already adorned his table, he stretched his legs and made his way over to the counter. The usual sullen barista didn’t even bother to ask what Bakura wanted to order, which pleased him to no end – the fewer words he had to exchange, the better. He was such a regular patron to this particular watering hole by now that he half-expected them to have his drink ready every morning – or _whenever_ he deigned to appear in public.

Bakura sat back at his table, and immediately wished he could just throw the laptop across the room – he swore the little paperclip icon was mocking him as it danced around on the screen and offered supremely unhelpful hints. However, he knew any frustrations he had couldn’t be taken out on the piece of technology. Aside from it costing a fortune, it was too tied into his line of work – and Bakura certainly didn’t want to give up the one thing that brought him any modicum of entertainment these days. Besides, unlike others in the private detective field, he preferred to store all his files digitally – movie clichés be damned.

But today, Bakura could ignore those pending unsolved mysteries – including the major pain-in-his-ass case courtesy of that pompous Seto Kaiba. Today was _his_ day to finally focus on the novel he’d stored in his head for weeks. Today was _his_ day to possibly unlock hidden memories from the first sixteen years of his life. Today was—

“Flat white for Barokee!”

Bakura cringed at the mispronouncing of his name. It seemed the barista who’d taken his order had left for her lunch break, leaving behind a too-perky girl who looked no older than sixteen and dressed no younger than twenty – not that Bakura would have given her more than a passing glance, even without his specific persuasion. Thankful that the renewed cup of strength was _finally_ ready, he rose again from his seat when—

“About time. Felt like that took thousands of years.”

The drink was suddenly snatched just within Bakura’s reach by a tan, ring-adorned hand – and he immediately did a double-take on the now-empty counter.

“Hey! That’s _my_ coffee you just pinched, asshole.”

“Yours?” The cup was now held in front of the interloper’s face – obscuring it completely from Bakura – as the chicken-scratch was deciphered close-up. “It’s definitely got my name on it. Or as close as these morons can get.”

The cup was brought down, and Bakura finally got a good look at the damn idiot who— _fuck_ , he was hot.

The man that stood before Bakura was shorter than him and a bit more toned – though, the oversized red hoodie he wore made his exact frame harder to discern, and the silver strands so similar to his own long locks made him look both young and old all at once. But the facial features surrounded by that wild hair were surprisingly soft and full of life – save for a series of three scars that ran faintly under his right eye. And _god_ those eyes... Bakura nearly lost himself in the hues of grey and purple that somehow mirrored his own with their intensity - before remembering where he was.

“ _Hmph._ As if your name could even begin to look like mine.” Bakura fought hard against the blush that made its way across his cheeks – silently cursing his pale complexion all the while – and plastered a trademark smirk on his lips. “You don’t even look like the type who’d go for a flat white.”

“What can I say?” The stranger matched Bakura’s grin _too_ effectively with one of his own. “I may pull for a dark roast, but I won’t say no to a little cream every now and then.”

So the attractive, meddling brat also had a penchant for innuendos – fuck _again_ , Bakura was desperate for a shag if this small interaction was enough to get him going. Before he could become any more flustered, he turned his attention to the barista – who was seemingly unconcerned at the mix-up happening on her watch.

“That coffee’s mine, right?”

“Ummmm…” She looked between the two men – apparently perplexed as to what to do – when the stranger stepped forward a bit too close for comfort. Yet Bakura noticed that he was careful in how he leaned against the counter to avoid any direct contact – only adding to his intrigue as he held the cup up for all to see.

“Look, you can just make out it says Bakhure right there, and—”

“ _Bakhure?_ Holy fucking hell, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Bakura burst into a fit of laughter at his dumb luck – how many similarities was he about to find the two of them had? No, it couldn’t get that far – he just needed to get his coffee, keep writing and—

“What’s so funny, whitey?” The stranger now known as Bakhure suddenly became cross – if looks could kill, Bakura sensed he would have felt literal daggers thrown in his direction. “Think you’d appreciate me taking swipes at _your_ name?”

 _That_ was a step too far - it might not have been his at birth, but Bakura took prideful ownership of his adopted surname. The sudden sharpness in the brat’s voice was enough to break the reverie that Bakura had been under for the past few minutes – he wrinkled his face in annoyance and shrugged his shoulders as nonchalantly as he could.

“You know what? Fuck it. Just keep the damn thing.”

Without a second glance, Bakura turned his back on the mockingly-empty counter, the more-than-useless barista and the frustratingly-gorgeous thief who had singlehandedly ruined his day – making sure his black trench coat whipped dramatically behind him for effect. He rushed over to his laptop, gathered his things and made his way over to the exit to _get the hell out now_.

* * *

Once outside, Bakura reached into his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter – eager to relish in the nicotine to clear his head, like he did on so many stressful days. But the door had hardly closed after him and the flame had barely been ignited when he heard a familiar voice call out.

“Hey!” Bakura whirled around to see the man called Bakhure now standing with a cup of coffee in each hand. He stopped briefly in his tracks when he saw the fire flicker towards the cigarette – but regained his composure when the lighter was put back in the trench coat’s pocket. “Seemed like you could use a shot of dark.”

The same tan hand from earlier – wearing jewelry that upon closer inspection really should have been out of Bakhure’s price range – motioned to a nearby bench down the block.

Bakura bristled, dragged on the smoke for comfort and clenched a hand tight around the ring under his shirt with a slight sense of unease – in spite of the returning warmth in his stomach at the cute pun and the oddly considerate gesture and the wiry body stepping closer to him and—

“I don’t talk with thieves. Especially if they so obviously come bearing gifts.”

“Oho, such strong words. Sorry to say, there’s only _certain times_ I come quietly.”

The overtly sexual retort nearly made Bakura choke on the fumes invading his lungs. He was fascinated enough – and too cranky from his self-diagnosed caffeine withdrawal – that the offer to sit with this strange man over a free cup of coffee compelled his legs to walk over to the bench and plop himself down. He threw his cigarette onto the ground and, after a few tentative sips to ensure he wasn’t drinking poison, relaxed somewhat into the wooden frame – aware the whole while that he was being watched by the striking pair of eyes next to him.

“Well, come on.”

“Come on _what_?” The continuation of the joke had been too tempting – perhaps this would be the start of a lovely distraction, a respite from the pressure of Bakura’s job, his self-instituted isolation and—

“What’s your name?” Well, _that_ was disappointing – so much build-up for such a weak payoff. Yet if Bakura’s abnormal life had taught him anything, it was when to give just enough honest information – like right now.

“Bakura.” He’d half-expected Bakhure to find the similarity in their names as amusing as he had earlier – but was met instead with the piercing gaze of a man who, like him, seemed to simply long for a decent conversation.

“Just Bakura? What is this, some sort of Prince-type situation, or—”

“Detective Bakura, if you must know.”

“Cop, eh?”

“No. _Detective_.” Bakura took another sip of his coffee – basking in one of the few moments he could show off his self-employed status. “You know. Private.”

“No kidding.” Bakhure’s sarcastic double-meaning threw Bakura for a loop – and he noticed that the other man hadn’t even begun to drink from his own cup.

What was _with_ this guy? This handsome, rugged—

“Bakura’s all you deserve.” Bakura kept his mind from wandering again by downing the remainder of his drink in one go. “And I could ask you the same thing, Bakhure.”

“Ah, that would be a bit awkward.” The same dark look from earlier graced Bakhure’s unique features – though this time, he looked more solemn than annoyed. “Haven’t got a last name.”

“Yeah, right. You're no Malcolm X. Everyone’s got a family name, dumbass.” Was it too much to playfully insult him? Did he like that sort of thing? _Was this a date?_ Fuck, Bakura needed to get back to writing _now_ , before things got out of hand – or _in_ his hand.

“Kinda hard to have a family name if you don’t have a family.”

Oh. So it _had_ been too much.

A million questions – as well as a cruel irony that there was probably so much that the man beside him wanted to forget, while he himself merely wished to remember – arose in Bakura’s head. But he kept his mouth shut, suddenly desperate for another cup of coffee – _anything_ to diffuse the tension now hanging in the air between them.

“I’m sorry.” It was a dumb thing to say, but Bakhure merely half-smiled in return and held tighter to his own cup – still never bringing it to his lips.

“So, _Detective_ Bakura. You working on a case then?”

“Even if I was, why do you think I’d tell you?” Bakura was good at his job, and he intended to maintain his secretive, confidential reputation – even if it meant holding out on a closer connection with this gorgeous stranger. “And anyway, I was in the middle of something else when you so conveniently interrupted my day.”

“Looked like you were in the middle of a whole lot of nothing. I could see your eyes wracked with frustration from across the room. You look prettier when you don’t crease your forehead, by the way.”

The bluntness with which Bakhure spoke would have floored a weaker man – but Bakura had surmised bits and pieces of his persona by now and recognised the desire to get a rise out of him, similar to his own tactics on the job. So, he allowed himself to smirk and inch _just slightly_ closer towards the warm body next to him – they were clearly of more than a passing interest to each other, and Bakura was curious to see how far this could go.

“A thief _and_ a voyeur? Seems you’re racking up misdemeanours left, right and center, _Bakhure_.” This time when he said it, Bakura let the name roll off his tongue, leaned in close and slanted his eyes – eager to see how the intimacy would affect his newfound conversation partner. Surprisingly – for all his blatant innuendos – Bakhure actually tensed at the closeness, but didn’t back away.

“Voyeur’s a new one on me. Not that I’d be opposed if you’re offering.” The banter was as heated as before, but now sounded more like a defense mechanism than anything else – a tidbit Bakura intended to store away for later usage. Bakhure looked down sheepishly at the undrunk cup in his hand – sliding his fingers along the rim – before regaining some of his earlier fire and matching Bakura’s confident gaze. “But I’ve been called a thief enough to actually believe it myself. And at least it fits me better than you do with that detective label.”

“I _am_ a detective, moron.”

“Not for very long you haven’t been. I’d say one, maybe one and a half years? I’d bet you only handle petty crimes mostly. Maybe take a huge case every few months to make ends meet?” Bakhure pointed a slender finger right at Bakura’s face, almost close enough to touch – for all their flirtatious repartee, something seemed to hold him back from actually making skin-on-skin contact. “Besides, there’s a slight twitch your eye does whenever I say the word.”

Bakura refused to become a victim to his own methods shot back at him – he pulled away without betraying any emotion and chuckled as he pretended to sip from his cup.

“You’re fucking insane.”

“I prefer fucking people who aren’t crazy, but I’ll take what I can get. You’re avoiding the topic, Bakura.” Now it was Bakhure who leaned in close – and suddenly Bakura felt very trapped and like the air was choking him and was this attraction or fear or— “ _Detective_ Bakura.”

The slight twitch in Bakura’s eye might as well have been the first sign of a stroke for how strongly he felt it – he raised a hand to his face to hide the flagrant betrayal and turned away in shame.

“It’s nothing. Just a side effect.”

This was _exactly_ why Bakura avoided talking to people – especially to pretty boys who could get under his skin so easily. Talking led to conversations. Conversations led to revelations. Revelations led to intimacy. Intimacy led to—

“Side effect, eh? What other secrets do you keep locked away, Bakura?”

Even the absence of the trigger word wasn’t enough to make him stay seated any longer. Bakura rose from the bench and began to walk _anywhere_ that wasn’t near Bakhure – he saw now that it’d been a mistake to engage with him, raging hormones be damned.

“I won’t report you for the stolen coffee. Or the pseudo-stalking. But next time you won’t be so lucky, kid.”

“You still think I stole that coffee from you earlier?”

“Wasn’t the one I was referring to.” Bakhure’s face shifted just slightly – more in pride than in shock – and he spread his arms across the back of the bench like he owned it. Conspicuously, Bakura noted that he _didn’t_ dispute the accusation. 

“Well… _kid_? Says the guy who also has grey hair. How old do you think I am?”

Old enough to get me into a lot of trouble that I wouldn’t mind one bit – was what Bakura wanted to say.

“Just stay away from me, alright?”

Bakura picked out another cigarette and lit it – once again causing a genuinely pained look to come over Bakhure’s face when his eyes caught sight of the fire. But that strange trait couldn’t be of concern to him right now – Bakura instead walked briskly across the busy Domino street, making himself scarce amongst the crowd.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if Bakhure – so like him in far too many ways for comfort – was also adept at tracking people and if his efforts to hide were for naught. But it wasn’t until he rounded a few blocks – ending up on the back end of where he’d just been – that he stopped his stride to breathe heavy with exhaustion and exhilaration. In front of him several dozen feet away, he watched Bakhure from behind – still sat on the bench, still not drinking his cup of coffee.

Of all the mysteries the guy posed, _this_ was oddly enough the one that Bakura wanted to solve first.

The answer came fairly quickly, when a homeless woman with silvery-blue hair and light skin – known around those parts for her quiet yet intense demeanour – approached Bakhure, who immediately stood up and handed the coffee to her. Bakura watched as the two individuals exchanged a few words and then proceeded to go through with another trade – the homeless woman handed what looked like a slip of paper to Bakhure, and Bakhure gave over one of the rings from his hand. They both parted ways in opposite directions soon after – leaving Bakura even more confused than before.

All joking aside, if Bakhure really _was_ a thief, why was he willing to hand off such lavish items so willingly? Why would he dress in such a loud variant of red and draw such attention to himself? How did he seem to pick up on so much about Bakura from so little an interaction? And what was a supposed foreigner like him even _doing_ in Domino? He clearly didn’t belong in the crowd of homogenous faces – but then again, Bakura realised, neither did _he_.

A beep from his back pocket pulled Bakura out of his trance – and he grimaced when he saw the name displayed like an eyesore on his pager.

“Kaiba.”

The fucker _knew_ it was his day off – but in typical Kaiba fashion, the likelihood was that he genuinely didn’t care. Yet as much as Bakura wanted to give what for to the young CEO – and his even worse partner Atem, the too-diplomatic bastard that he was – he knew doing so would cost him his biggest case yet.

Walking with heavy feet – and ignoring his heavier heart at having left Bakhure, the most excitement he could recall in his jigsaw of memories – Bakura made his way towards his apartment complex, painfully aware that the day was going to be a bust so far as writing and reminiscences were concerned.


	2. Alone

Bakura ended up taking the long way home through a nearby park – not much caring about making Kaiba or Atem wait – to watch the happy families laughing and playing, in the hopes that it might trigger some long-lost memories. _Not_ – as he unsuccessfully convinced himself – to ruminate on his talk with the handsome stranger whom he _really_ wouldn’t have minded getting his hands on.

The detective had long thought himself past the teenager phase of crushes and true loves, especially given how badly his last relationship had turned out - causing him to paw at the ring around his neck again. But he couldn’t deny that – unlike every other similar-looking face and goody-goody personality in Domino City – there was something about Bakhure that immediately drew in his attention and made him stand out.

Ultimately, the fact that Bakura couldn’t get the stunning, haughty face out of his head caused him to arrive home much later than expected. The day was getting chillier as the sun began its descent. Bakura took a drag on what must have been his fifth cigarette in two hours as he climbed his apartment stairs and prepared himself for whatever his clients wanted to bombard him with this time.

The one redeeming trait of Seto Kaiba – at least in Bakura’s mind – was that the millionaire had little time for small talk, or much talk at all. He was direct and to-the-point – much more a fan of bullet points than paragraphs. It was why Bakura preferred corresponding with Kaiba over Atem – there was just something about his equitable, almost kingly demeanour that struck the detective the wrong way. With Kaiba, he knew what he got. With Atem, he only saw more mysteries to be solved.

Yet as Bakura entered his droll apartment and brought his laptop back out to hook up to the Internet, he wondered if perhaps he was projecting his own discreet life onto the CEO’s partner. But all such thoughts were pushed aside as he opened his e-mail. Despite his other clients contacting him via pager to indicate they wanted a telephone call, Kaiba only ever sent e-mails – the most recent of which Bakura perused now.

_Update? Check your mailbox anymore? I don’t pay to have my time wasted. Time is money. And my money keeps disappearing._

_Bastard left a calling card this morning. TKB. The B wouldn’t stand for Bakura, would it?_

_Provide evidence of progress in three days, or I’ll personally see to it that you face the unemployment line._

Well, so far as insults from the young millionaire went… that was almost a compliment.

Bakura leaned back in emotional fatigue and stared at the splotchy ceiling. He listened as the couple upstairs fluctuated between arguing loudly and fucking even louder. The moans and cries wafting down only served as a reminder of the detective’s own seclusion and his earlier encounter – the curve of Bakhure’s lips, the heavy lashes over his unforgettable eyes, the bangs brushing against his tan skin—

The unbalanced chair screeched as Bakura sat upright and refocused his mind. His job – his entire livelihood – was potentially on the line now, and he had no intention of giving up the life he’d built for himself in Domino City. He was finally serving _some_ purpose instead of being the major fuck-up he knew his family thought of him as – his _fake_ family, he corrected himself, the poor bastards who took him in more out of pity than love. Even Ryou—

The thought of his adopted brother suddenly made Bakura realise something – namely, that Ryou hadn’t sent any of his usual letters for the past month. Come to think of it, Bakura hadn’t received _any_ mail recently. And Kaiba had made that jab about checking his mailbox…

A brief visit downstairs confirmed that no mail had arrived for him, and Bakura paced around the hall between the shoddy elevator and his apartment door. The gold emblazoned 69 mocked his lack of a sex life – and suddenly, a terrible thought came over him. He wasn’t one to give in easily to the idea of fate, but everything that had happened so far that day seemed too coincidental – _especially_ where his line of work was concerned.

Black trench coat rushing behind him as he ran, Bakura knocked on the door of apartment 66 a few doors down and was greeted by a voluptuous blonde who sadly didn’t know anything about any letters but would he perhaps like to come in for a nice long—

Bakura bolted away from the come hither look faster than he imagined possible – and pressed the button to go up the elevator several times before it finally arrived. If his theory was correct, Kaiba would just have to wait a little longer to have his case solved – it was still technically Bakura’s day off, and this was one of several mysteries that he intended to work out before the day was through.

* * *

A swell of anxiety coursed through Bakura’s body as he made his way across the top floor of his apartment building. The level seemed cleaner than his own, but there was an uncomfortable vibe he got from the off-colour walls and the creaky floors and the flickering lights. Nevertheless, he fought against his better instincts and counted the doors as he passed them.

93, 95, 97… bingo.

Before Bakura stood a door with not a 99 pasted on it in gold like his own – _but another 69_.

One mystery down. Too many more to go.

Gathering all his courage – and cursing himself for being nervous in the first place – Bakura knocked a bit too loudly on the wood, and waited. And waited. And waited.

The faint smell of meat cooking drifted from underneath the door – the familiar scent made Bakura close his eyes at an indistinct memory of _something_ creeping forward from the back of his mind. A reminder of a life lived before? A repressed thought of those first few days he could remember? Something else entirely different or—

“Didn’t you tell _me_ to stay away?”

When Bakura opened his eyes again, he was met with the genuinely surprised face of the man with whom he’d become entangled earlier. Bakhure now wore a red robe that left little to the imagination so far as his top half was concerned – while his lower body revealed strong legs barely covered by some folded blue cloth. The detective released the breath he wasn’t even aware he’d been holding and held out his hand.

“Letters. Now.”

“Was wondering when you’d finally figure it out. Gotta say, the fact it took you this long doesn’t give me much faith in your detective skills.”

Bakhure wore his familiar shit-eating grin – he gestured Bakura to step inside as he adjusted the gold number on his door to correctly read 99. The detective hesitated at first, before realising how idiotic it would look to just stand like a statue in the hallway.

As soon as he walked in, Bakura noticed how the contrast between his own apartment and this one was stark yet familiar. Bakhure’s place was certainly homier and allowed for more personality to shine through, but there was also an ambiance hanging around the room that was… sad. And mournful.

The presence of several empty picture frames around a coffee table – accompanied by what looked like seven talismans of some kind and a handmade clay figure of a white snake with wings – piqued Bakura’s interest as Bakhure stepped back into view with a substantial pile of letters in hand.

“How come you didn’t fucking say anything, asshole?”

“You never asked.”

Bakhure shrugged and picked up one side of his robe as it slipped off his shoulder – whether the move was deliberate or an accident, Bakura couldn’t tell. But he was honestly more intrigued – now that he could get a closer look – by the abundance of scars that graced Bakhure’s body, from small scratches to long, deep cuts faded with time. When he realised he was staring too long, Bakura thumbed through the envelopes – most from Ryou, a few from utilities, two from Kaiba—

“They must be pretty important. That Ryou guy sounds cute. He a boyfriend?”

“You _read_ them?”

Bakura positively reeled when he came across an already-opened envelope - and he couldn’t hold back the anger boiling inside him any longer. He reached for Bakhure and pinned him against the closest wall, reveling in the height difference that gave him just enough sense of power. Yet the tan enigma before him didn’t betray any fear – if anything, his smugness implied that _he_ had the high ground, which only pissed Bakura off even more.

“You don’t get to talk about my brother.”

“Okay, okay, I get it, I fucked up. Can you just—”

“You don’t get to interfere with _my life_ , understand?”

“Look, the pork’s gonna burn, and I really don’t—”

_“Who the fuck do you think you are?”_

Bakhure suddenly broke free with a surprising amount of strength to attend to the looming disaster on his stove – and Bakura leaned forward against the wall to slide to the floor. He felt hot tears threaten to pry their way out of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall – he couldn’t let this complete stranger see him so vulnerable, he couldn’t allow himself to unpack the last decade of emotional trauma _right now_ , he couldn’t have Bakhure—

“Here.”

The sight of a roasted pork sandwich and a bottle of beer entered Bakura’s view below. He took the food without thinking, painfully aware that – for all the caffeine and nicotine he’d consumed throughout the day – he’d neglected to actually feed himself. Turning himself around to sit on the hardwood and eat too quickly, he saw Bakhure with his own sandwich and drink sprawled out and legs up on a nearby ratty couch – if his toned thighs were any more apart, Bakura might just get a glimpse of—

“Like what you see?”

A mess of emotions, Bakura took the hint and rapidly stood up to tower over the tan form underneath him – sending Bakhure into a frantic mess as he backed away.

“You fucking idiot. Why do you say shit like that if you don’t intend to back it up?” Bakura eyed Bakhure as he took his trench coat off and made himself comfortable on the couch. He took a swig of alcohol – aware that it was still his day off and fuck it he could do what he wanted.

“Just because I tease doesn’t mean I consent. Would’ve thought you’d understand that better than anyone.”

“I don’t get you, kid. And honestly, I’m too tired to try.” Bakura shook his head and tried to stave off the headache he felt coming on by biting into his food.

“You can stop with the ‘kid’ crap, alright? I’m 22.” Both men drank their beers at once, and Bakhure leaned back to slide down the couch – _just_ exposing some of his upper thigh.

“Right. And I’m British.” Bakura rolled his eyes and polished off the remainder of his sandwich – he hated to admit it, but the kid was a damn good cook.

“Could be. I mean, you don’t know _anything_ about the first sixteen years of your life, right? It’s bound to mess with your head.”

Bakura was more stunned than irate now – he gripped tight to the letters in his hand, and stared dumbfounded as Bakhure continued to drink from his own bottle as if this was a perfectly normal conversation.

“If you know so much about me, why don’t _you_ answer the question?”

“I’d rather hear it from you, Bakura.”

The detective mirrored Bakhure’s pose and slumped back into the couch. He felt for the ring under his shirt – and was sent into a panic when his fingers failed to grasp it. Eyes wide, Bakura heard a light whirring sound to his side – and saw Bakhure spinning the cord with _his_ ring in circles through the air.

“You really are a little thief, aren’t you?”

“Never said I wasn’t. Kleptomania becomes a way to survive if you’re someone like me. And you were _so_ upset when you had me against that wall. Very sexy of you, I might add. Didn’t take much to snatch it while you were distracted.” Bakura – now feeling the effects of the alcohol due to his near-empty stomach – mistimed leaning forward to grab the ring, and almost fell into Bakhure’s lap. “I’ll give it back, don’t worry. But only in exchange for a story.”

“Seriously? A story?”

“Yup. Like… why you have this.” Bakhure – apparently less inebriated than the man next to him – stared longingly at the shiny gold object that swung before his eyes. “You don’t seem the sentimental type.”

“Unhealthy relationship that caused a lot of people too much grief. The end.”

“That’s boring. Try again.”

Bakura groaned as he pushed aside his plate and tried – unsuccessfully – to snatch the ring again.

“ _Ugh_. Bad boyfriend. Fiancé. Fuck buddy. Whatever you want to call it. Now give—”

“You hang onto this knowing it’s a reminder of a bad time in your life?”

“I’d rather the reminder than not remembering anything at all!”

Bakhure looked surprised by the honesty – he smiled and finally handed over the ring, watching as Bakura grabbed at it clumsily and put it back on himself.

“This wouldn’t happen to be that Ryou guy, would it?”

“ _Pft_. Ryou’s nothing like Z—”

Yup, Bakura was _definitely_ feeling the effects of the alcohol. He leaned back into the couch again – making sure he gave enough space to Bakhure – and toyed with the ring back around his neck as he spoke more freely than he had in years.

“He’s my brother. Adopted brother, really. His dad took me in after— after whatever happened to me when I was sixteen. Who the fuck knows why I can’t remember anything. Doctors said it was a major concussion, but— I just know I woke up in a hospital all alone and— Fuck, can you imagine not having a real identity for a good chunk of your life? No one giving enough of a shit to claim you as their own? Leaving you wondering if who you were before is even who you are now?”

“I don’t have to imagine.”

Bakura caught Bakhure’s gaze on him – softer this time, more understanding – and took another gulp from his bottle.

“Ryou sends me these long-ass letters every week. Encourages me to write to see if it jogs some memories. It’s what I was doing today. Trying to, at least.” The ring accidentally slipped onto Bakura’s finger as he fiddled with it, and he let out a choked laugh. “The asshole who gave me this convinced me to do such awful things to him. I mean, I was a kid with no history and I was furious and lonely. But I— I took it all out on this boy who didn’t ask for a fuck-up for a brother. Cutting his arm, slicing his hand open, burning cigarettes on his chest. And you know what? The bastard never even complained. He never cried and he never held it against me and he keeps trying to help me even now and—"

Fuck, the tears were going to fall any moment. Bakura turned his face away into his coat, and felt a weight on the couch shift. When he looked back up, he saw Bakhure standing overhead with a tissue in his hand – the detective didn’t even question the gesture as he shamelessly wiped at the wetness around his face.

“At least you have a brother.” Now it was Bakura’s turn to watch transfixed as Bakhure spoke – suddenly eager to distract himself with the mystery that was the man sat next to him. “I’m the only survivor of a place no one cared about. Ransacked and bombarded by rebel fanatics sixteen years ago. Driven away from a culture I don’t have a right to now. This is all that I have left.”

Bakhure motioned to the items that Bakura had noticed earlier when he first walked in – finally understanding the significance of the empty frames.

“The world’s fucked up, isn’t it?”

“Don't have to remind me. What they _won’t_ tell you is how it wasn’t an accident. My home was taken away from me in the name of preserving peace. By millionaires and CEOs and anyone else who could pay with blood money.” Bakhure clenched his fists and threw his beer bottle to the ground, resulting in shards scattering everywhere. Bakura twitched at the sound, but never faltered in watching Bakhure – he only seemed more attractive the more passionately he spoke. “ _We_ were the ones labelled dangerous. And yet the extremists who were paid off by those rich bastards came in the night for my family and friends and neighbors and—”

“I saw you today with that homeless woman.” The conversation was getting too heavy for Bakura’s liking. Even if it didn’t lead anywhere, he wanted to go back to their explicit flirtations and sarcastic quips - it was too much to see Bakhure so worked up. He put a hand on Bakhure’s knee without thinking – and was surprised when the warm, tan body didn’t flinch at his touch for once. “What’s your end game, Bakhure? A guy like you doesn’t just forgive and forget.”

“Now you wanna know _my_ secrets?” Bakura didn’t bother to correct him – he couldn’t deny that he’d wanted to know everything about him from almost the second they’d met. “Guess I’ve pissed you off enough that I owe you one.”

Bakhure set a tentative hand on Bakura’s, and lifted him up to go down the hall. In the small room they entered was an array of various technology – and in the middle of the space was a computer that the detective could immediately tell was _much_ fancier than his own. With their hands released, Bakhure awoke the device and brought up a series of complicated programs – his nimble fingers working the keyboard with an ease that shouldn’t have been so arousing to Bakura.

“The woman you saw me with worked for Kaiba and Atem. Until they laid her off for outliving her usefulness. Thankfully, she’s been more than useful to _me_.” Bakhure stopped typing and let Bakura sit down to parse through a series of pages full of numbers, account information and personnel data. “It was _their_ fathers who spearheaded all those ‘random’ attacks back in the day, you know. So I figured… why not take the livelihoods they stole from people like me… and give it all back?”

The detective couldn’t even begin to form words as he made sense of the evidence before him. If what he was reading was correct, Bakhure had managed to hack thousands, if not _millions_ , from Kaiba, Atem and other similarly high-powered individuals for the past several years - only to give it back to orphanages, refugee charities and minority activist groups all over the world. All while living his humble existence in Domino City.

Bakura couldn’t fathom how the modern day Robin Hood had managed to do it all – when a thought suddenly entered his head.

“You knew they put me on this case.”

“For over a month now.” Bakhure chuckled and leaned over – brushing his now-exposed arm against Bakura’s and making them both blush – to bring up another page, this one devoted entirely to bits and pieces of information on the pale detective sat in his apartment.

“If I wasn’t so tipsy, I’d probably arrest you for, like, a hundred illegal acts.”

“Illegal acts? Oooo, do I get handcuffs?” Bakura spun the chair around to look up at the tan figure that loomed above – if Bakhure was a predator, the detective certainly wouldn’t have minded being his prey to be toyed with for the evening.

“Private detectives don’t have handcuffs, dumb fuck.”

“Not so dumb if I can pull all this off from the comfort of my home.” Bakhure knelt down closer than before, and placed his hands atop Bakura’s - bare chest rising and falling noticeably quicker than before. “Besides, you haven’t given me a test run to know if I fuck dumb _or_ smart.”

“Honestly—” Bakura stood and held tightly to the hands clasped against his own. “—I’d rather just listen to someone else’s memories for once.”


	3. Shallow

They ended up conversing for hours – forgoing sleep in favour of trading tales of anger, sadness, fear and even joy – until it was nearly morning. They’d kept drinking at first, but even that had fallen by the wayside as they talked more intimately about regrettable ex-boyfriends and scars attained over the years and schemes to make the world burn – growing more comfortable with the other’s presence as they moved nearer to each other with each story. By the time three hours had passed, both men were almost sat in each other’s laps.

Not counting his fraught relationship with Ryou, Bakura felt like he’d finally found someone whom he could really truly relate to, someone who made him feel like he belonged and wasn’t completely alone in the world – and he got the idea that maybe Bakhure felt the same way, too. He spun one of the bottles in his hand and sighed in contentment – save for one final question.

“Why TKB?”

“Hm?” Bakhure was slumped across the couch, nearly dead to the world.

“What does it stand for, moron?”

“Never really gave it much thought. Just chose them at random when I learned how to hack.” As if struck by a brilliant idea, Bakhure suddenly sat up – his eyes wide like saucers - and began adding a few English words into his speech. “You keep calling me a thief, though. So how about… _thief_ … _king_? Oooo, I like the sound of that.”

“You don’t need any more ego-stroking.” Bakura waved away the idea and adjusted his position on the couch – feeling his clothes were now too hot and too tight when so close to the heated tan body. “Anyway, you give all your riches to others. And you dress so outlandishly that you’d just draw attention to yourself. Not much of a traditional thief, if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t ask you.” Bakhure playfully poked Bakura was his foot. “I look fantastic in red, if the way you've been eyeing me all day is any indication. And it just shows how I’m a _benevolent_ thief king if I give away my booty.”

“Anyone would be lucky to take your booty.” Bakura knew the words were wrong the instant they left his mouth, and he groaned loudly at the awful innuendo. Bakhure just cackled at the slip-up and leaned his head against the detective’s shoulder. Once they’d settled down again, they both exhaled loudly and broke away from each other. “Would you believe that Kaiba thought the ‘B’ was for my name?”

“Dumbass wouldn’t know right from left if he didn’t pay people to tell him.”

“Too true. Guess I’ll have to forgo _that_ paycheck now.” The realisation that there was no way he could continue Kaiba’s case in good faith genuinely didn’t bother Bakura – but the concerned look on Bakhure’s face _did_. “It’s no big deal. He and his ‘life partner’ pissed me off too much anyway. Pretentious asshats.”

“Fair enough. Though, for the record, I didn’t mean for you to lose your job.”

The lingering alcohol must have been getting to the detective – the room was still spinning and he felt a lightness in his chest at the show of concern and _god damn_ Bakhure really did look good in that red robe that dripped off of him like rubies.

“Believe it or not, I’m happy.”

“O… kay?” Bakhure seemed to finally match Bakura’s stupor – though whether it was from all the alcohol he’d consumed or the lateness of the hour was hard to know.

“I mean it.” Bakura tilted his head and drooped his eyes to shamelessly gaze over the tan skin in front of him. “For the first time in as long as I can remember… I’m really, _really_ happy.”

“And you called _me_ crazy earlier.”

“Hey, this is a big deal for me. You already know the shit life I was dealt. That we were _both_ dealt.” Bakura brought his hand up to tangle with Bakhure’s, their fingers inelegantly meeting in an awkward dance. “I thought _I_ deflected a lot. What are you so afraid of?”

Bakhure gripped tight on the hand linked to his own and shook his head as if trying to purge a bad thought.

“It’s easier to be alone. To not care or lo—” Bakhure sent a look in the detective's direction that was almost apologetic – the lights flowing in from the outside illuminated his tan face perfectly, and Bakura felt a sudden surge in his chest at the lovely sight. “When I took your coffee today I didn’t intend to— I didn’t think we’d— this is so much closer than—”

Before he knew what he was doing, Bakura threw his long-empty beer bottle to the floor and wrapped his arms awkwardly around Bakhure – who froze stiff. It took several moments, but eventually tan hands came to drag across the cotton of Bakura’s shirt, while pale fingers slowly felt at every scar marking Bakhure’s back through the thin robe he wore. A small wince made its way out of Bakura’s throat as he gripped tighter and pressed deeper – the hug had now gone on for far longer than could be construed as merely platonic, but neither he nor Bakhure showed any signs of wanting to let go of each other.

If both their traumatic stories were to be believed, this was the first time in who knew how long that either man was willing to be vulnerable before anyone else – it was as if some sort of fate had brought them together this day, to finally reconcile the pasts that they needed to remember and forget.

But also, Bakura mused… _fuck_ fate. Or rather, fuck—

“We don’t have to be alone. We could just… belong to each other.” At that, Bakura felt Bakhure release all tension in his body – he stroked the detective’s back with an unexpected gentleness, unconsciously edging his shirt up his body. Bakura couldn’t help the grin that came across his face – a grin that somehow Bakhure also sensed.

“I meant what I said before earlier. You look prettier when you smile.”

Had the words been spoken by anyone else under any other circumstance, Bakura would have given them at least a well-spoken diatribe – if not a threat with his knife – as to why he preferred his characteristic scowl. But the sincerity of Bakhure’s partially-broken voice caused Bakura to pull back – and he nearly gasped when he saw the expression on the other man’s face.

It could have just been the alcohol finally wearing off, but deep down Bakura knew that Bakhure’s flushed cheeks and parted lips and half-lidded gaze and audible breaths were being caused by something else altogether. To test his theory, Bakura brought a shaky hand up to caress the scar under the other man’s right eye. Bakhure flinched for only a second before leaning into the touch and eliciting what sounded like a small, satisfied moan. The sound almost brought Bakura to tears for the third time that day – where had this astounding man, who seemed to understand him better than anyone else before, _been_ his whole life?

“And you, Bakhure… you just look beautiful.”

It _definitely_ wasn’t the alcohol anymore – this had been brewing inside him since the coffee shop, since the long talks, since the life-changing realisations, since the need to solve the mystery that was Bakhure, since—

There was no time to think anymore once Bakura’s vision was taken up by those mesmerising grey-purple eyes moving closer and closer to him. But there was a slight hesitation to Bakhure’s actions, and he stopped literally a millimetre away from joining their mouths together. Bakura didn’t bridge the gap – at least not immediately. He instead preferred to savour the tantalising closeness of Bakhure’s breath meeting his own – and the intoxicating, suspenseful moment that they both knew could only lead to one outcome.

“Tell me what you want.” The question caught Bakura off-guard – so he ran on pure instinct as he leaned back against the couch and pulled Bakhure down with him, maintaining their miniscule distance all the while. It was like their minds worked as one as their bodies shifted to get more comfortable, and they became slowly aware of the compromising position they were now in – Bakhure towering over Bakura between his spread legs, pale hands on tan skin, now-obvious erections just barely within reach of each other through their clothes.

“I want to make this feeling last forever.” Bakura was sure the man above him could genuinely taste the desperation in his words with how close they were. “I want you, Bakhure.”

The last sentence was nearly swallowed as their lips finally met after so much teasing – were he in a better frame of mind, Bakura may have wondered if there was such a thing as foreplay to foreplay. But the feel of Bakhure’s slightly rough yet surprisingly tender mouth on his own overrode any other thoughts that dared to enter his head. The kiss was chaste – sweet, even – and not at all what was expected from the man who’d seemingly willed his way into Bakura’s life.

It was over almost before it even started. They both drew back at the same time – their eyes never having fully closed – and just stared at each other. For two people who always had a witty jab or pun at the ready, both of them were completely silent for once.

Time stopped. The faint noise of city life outside resounded through the air. Yet the only thing either could focus on was the pair of eyes that somehow held the same level of pain – now staring into the other’s soul as if to resolve the years of hurt.

“How do you want me?” The words easily escaped Bakura’s mouth – and he let loose a series of faint whimpers as Bakhure’s body lowered onto his, allowing better access to lean up and kiss again. And again. And again.

For the first time in his relatively-short memory – more than he ever had with his awful ex – Bakura knew how good it felt to be genuinely wanted by someone else. And _fuck_ did he want Bakhure right here, right now. He pressed his hands against the warm tan chest and lowered the red robe so that it fell back across broad shoulders – allowing better access to paw at the raised lines that graced the otherwise flawless skin.

In turn, Bakhure reached in-between their bodies to feel at the tight bulge making itself apparent within Bakura’s pants – a grin came over his face as nimble fingers worked to coax the clothed erection to even greater heights.

“Look at _you_.” Bakhure’s voice was like silk and his eyes shined with desire and Bakura rolled his hips up to wipe _that look_ off his face – causing them both to whine at the sensation of their groins connecting once more.

“Don’t fucking tease me.” Bakura was sure it sounded like he was begging, but fuck it he didn’t care anymore - he wanted this and Bakhure wanted this and they were both adults and he never wanted to lose this sensation of belonging ever again.

He fingered the edges of the cloth around Bakhure’s hips – before realising that there was nothing underneath. Now wearing a grin of his own, he teased his digits along the twitching cock that was just out of view – making sure to drag the moment out as Bakhure arched into the touch and ran his hands along Bakura’s exposed stomach.

In one swift motion and with a surprising amount of strength, Bakhure suddenly lifted them both up – with Bakura’s legs wrapped tight around his waist, right where they belonged – and carried their slightly tipsy frames into the adjoining bedroom. He plopped them both down on the mussed bed, and their bodies became tangled in a blur of contrasting skin tones as they peeled off each individual layer of clothing from one another as slowly as possible.

Once they both laid naked beside each other, they continued to absentmindedly run their fingers across each other’s bodies – trying to map out both the physical and emotional scars that ran deeper than anyone else but them could understand. Increasingly loud moans escaped their mouths as their lips met in a series of lazy, unbroken kisses that hastened the inevitable next bit – they breathed deep through their noses and pulled at each other’s hips and gasped when they finally felt their bare cocks touch.

“Is it narcissistic… to call out your name… when it sounds so much… like mine?”

“I don’t care… what you call me.” Bakura pulled away to show his sincerity – running his hands through the silky hair below him while his own cascaded around Bakhure’s stupidly beautiful face. “Just make me feel good. Make me remember what love feels like.”

“ _Is_ this love, Bakura?”

Neither wanted to think when they preferred to act – and fuck did they want to do so many acts to each other. But Bakura did pause for a moment before leaning down to kiss his way across Bakhure’s forehead, eyelids and cheeks.

“If it is… I want to know… this is real.” He spoke the next words right against Bakhure’s lips for emphasis – and felt the body below him shiver. “Show me your love... When you come inside me.”

Bakura suddenly felt himself flipped over – and saw Bakhure reach to a nearby nightstand to grab at what looked like a bottle of oil. A shrug of shoulders indicated it was what they’d have to make do with, but the look on Bakhure’s face showed only a determination to be as gentle as possible. So when Bakura felt a finger breach his entrance and slowly pull out and push back in deep, he couldn’t help but let loose a satisfied groan of appreciation.

“ _Ngh_ , god... I need this…”

Another finger worked with the first to scissor Bakura open, and he bucked into the touch to take more in – prompting a third finger to enter and make him nearly scream as it rubbed up against the sensitive nerves inside.

“How do you... know exactly… how to… touch… _fuck!_ ”

Sex had _never_ felt so good for him before – not even with the bastard whose monster cock had been one of the main reasons Bakura had stuck around for so long. But now, with Bakhure… it was like Bakura was diving down into a well of sensations long forgotten - there were no words he could think of other than fucking exquisite. Necessary. Arousing. Right. Fulfilling. Perfect.

As the tan body above doused his throbbing erection and aligned himself to push in, Bakhure bent down. He sucked on Bakura’s lower lip before gradually moving to his jawline and neck to leave a series of faint marks that made the detective cry out in pure desire.

“Take me… now… please, Bakhure… do it… _oh, god!_ ”

Not even glancing up when he entered below, Bakhure purred into Bakura’s neck as he sank impossibly deeper inside – the vibrations of his arousal sent a tingle across the pale skin. Bakura fought hard to control his wails when he felt the wide girth retract and push in again and again - tortuously slowly, searching for that same sweet spot from moments before. But he felt all inhibitions leave his body as Bakhure pulled on his hair and attacked the crux of his neck and shoulder with a wet tongue and sharp teeth.

“Oh, fuck— fill me— fill me up good— yes— That’s it—!”

An exceptionally strong thrust jabbed right into Bakura’s prostrate and made him see stars. Bakhure could tell the angle worked by the screams filling the room – so he doubled-down on his efforts at a relentless pace that threatened to wreck the already unstable bed.

“ _Mmmm_ , so good— Can’t last— for long— Bakura—”

Tan hands kept a tight grip on the pale skin and silver hair underneath. Bakura desperately wanted to see Bakhure's face as he pounded into his ass, but could barely think straight enough to lift his head - he could only cry out from the wonderful feeling of being stretched and filled by a stranger who knew him better than he knew himself. Every time they drew close together was like a lifeline growing tighter and tighter around them. Bakura had never been the romantic type before - but he couldn't help but feel some small barrier break down with each thrust into him, like Bakhure was reaching into his very soul.

“You’re so— so tight— god, Bakura—”

To encourage the other man's climax, Bakura wrapped one leg around Bakhure's firm waist and stretched the other to rest along his back - holding their bodies as close together as possible. Yet his hands were so preoccupied with grabbing Bakhure’s ass and driving him in as far as he could go, Bakura hardly noticed how the other's stomach was pressed at exactly the right angle against his leaking cock – only as he felt himself climbing higher and higher to the peaks of pleasure did he realise what was happening, and begged his release out in sharp gasps.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Harder— Keep going— I want to come, Bakhure— Please, please— Make me— _ahhhh!_ ”

The friction on his shaft was fucking divine and the pressure on his cockhead was like a fire being set in his soul. The climax that washed over Bakura completely flooded his senses to the point where he almost forgot to breathe – half from shock and half from exhaustion. He felt his hot come slide between their abdomens - but the man above just bucked even harder into the wasted pale body. Aftershocks of pleasure shot through Bakura's core - causing him to reflexively tighten his ass and draw out his ecstasy longer than any orgasm he'd ever had before. 

“ _Ahhhh_ — You’re making me— Oh, Bakura, I’m gonna—!”

Bakura genuinely didn’t expect it when Bakhure finally brought his face up and locked their lips together in a very content final moan. At the same time as the kiss, a deep warmth entered his body, and Bakura reveled in the sensation of being filled with a whine of his own against Bakhure’s mouth. After several moments of post-coital bliss, they finally collapsed in a heap against each other.

It didn’t even occur to Bakura that he hadn’t been touched once during their entire lovemaking. He was such a trembling mess from the earth-shattering orgasm he’d experienced, he could only laugh hoarsely at the pure joy he felt in that moment. No one had ever made him come so hard – but more importantly, he’d never felt such a surge of emotion as when Bakhure had captured his mouth at the moment of his climax. If this was love… he might just steal some more of it from the thief. 

After they’d finally caught their breath, the bed shifted and the sound of Bakhure’s feet padding across the floor softly resounded in the room. Bakura could barely keep himself awake enough to turn away from the sliver of light that hit his face when the door opened – but a moment later he felt himself gently pulled up to rest against the bedframe.

“Drink. We both need it.” A glass of water was placed into his hands, and Bakhure clasped their fingers together so that the detective could drink it all down – between the abundance of alcohol and the fucking of his lifetime, Bakura was thankful for the gesture.

“You cleansing our souls?”

“If your screams didn’t sound like an exorcism, I don’t know what would.”

Bakura was too content to think of a witty comeback. So, he just leaned forward to sloppily kiss Bakhure again for a solid minute - before noticing that they were now tilting into their bodily fluids spread over the bed. They chuckled more than grimaced, and Bakhure left to go fetch a towel. Bakura followed behind into the hall to grope at the cigarettes in his coat pocket – but the instant he lit one, he saw the other man freeze in place at the sight of the flame.

“This genuinely scares you, doesn't it?” Bakura flipped off the lighter and pocketed it back in his trench coat.

“It reminds me too much of the night my family—" Bakhure brought the towel up to his face as if to hide his shame. “Damn, I thought I’d have been over this by now.”

The detective – ever perceptive and suddenly feeling charitable himself – removed the cigarettes and lighter again, opened a nearby window and tossed them to an unsuspecting passerby down below. He felt more than saw Bakhure’s eyes watch him as he then removed the ring from around his neck – and without a second thought dropped it right behind his former vices.

After closing the window – the cold air from outside causing goose pimples to cover their naked forms – Bakhure approached Bakura with his red robe and enclosed them both within it. They stood there for several minutes – just enjoying the heat of each other’s skin and feeling their heartbeats thump as one.

“Recovery is a bitch. But we’ve gotten rid of enough demons for one day. We can work on more tomorrow.”

“ _We?_ You planning on joining me in my quite illegal venture to steal from the rich and give to the poor, Bakura?”

Bakura ran a hand through that untamed yet smooth hair, down to the mark on Bakhure’s face, down even further to the scars that ran across his chest.

“After everything that’s happened today… I think I’d be a fool not to.”

The detective – really, _former_ detective – pulled Bakhure in for an even tighter hug, and expressed all the trust, understanding and love that he could muster into a single, perfect kiss. When they finally pulled away several moments later, neither had the heart to comment on the tears welling at the other’s eyes – there would be plenty of time to poke fun at each other for that later.

For now, this was a sacred moment. A moment that – for all their past traumas both painfully remembered or frustratingly forgotten – was finally _theirs_ to hold within their similarly beating hearts for as long as they wanted.


End file.
